


Leap of Faith

by deklava



Series: Against All Odds- a Mystrade Saga [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex, Serial Killers, Sexual Content, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Act of Love". James Moriarty seeks revenge on Mycroft Holmes, and he has a powerful and unexpected ally. Established Mystrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes hadn't done this in years. As he unbuttoned his silk shirt and reclined on the blanket, letting the warm breeze tickle his naked flesh, he admitted that Gregory Lestrade's idea had been a good one.

"Star gazing puts everything in perspective, Myc," Gregory said. "Any time life gets to me, I scarper off onto my roof with a couple of pints, lie back, and look at the stars." He pointed heavenward. "All those constellations, going on forever. Makes my own problems seem small in comparison."

"Mmm. I used to star-gaze when I was a child. Sherlock was afraid of heights, so the roof was an ideal spot to get away from him. I became quite the amateur astronomer." Mycroft turned his head on the folded suit jacket that now doubled as a pillow. "But I never had a ravishing Detective Inspector for company."

Gregory chuckled. It was a deep, throaty noise that made Mycroft shiver. "And I never had the most brilliant man in England –not to mention the sexiest- lying half naked beside me." He rolled onto his side, the late summer heat causing sweat to trickle down his bare chest, and propped his head up with one arm.

Mycroft rolled over too, so that they were face to face. His shirt fell open, exposing his own chest. "I told you today that I love you, right?"

"You've told me at least a dozen times. But who's counting?"

A lazy, sensual silence descended, broken only by the sounds of traffic below. They had returned that morning from the Holmes family estate in Yorkshire Dales, and already they missed the clean air and rural silence. Mycroft's Knightsbridge town house was the epitome of luxury, but desire for the illusion of wide open spaces drove them onto the roof after dinner.

"So how are you feeling, Myc?" Gregory's features, softened by affection, looked concerned.

"Health-wise, never better. Now if Mr. Moriarty were safely contained I'd be much more relaxed."

"Has he texted you again?"

"Not since yesterday. He's quite looking forward to an eventual encounter. And to be frank, so am I." Mycroft knew without having to look that bodyguards lingered in the street below and on the neighboring rooftops, engaged to ensure that no such confrontation occurred. But he harboured no illusions: if James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran wanted to get to him, they'd find a way. A showdown could never be prevented, merely delayed.

Gregory frowned. "You are not leaving my sight until that fucking psycho is behind bars."

Bars never held men like Moriarty for long, but Mycroft didn't correct him. "No?"

"Not for a second." Lestrade reached out and laid his other hand on Mycroft's waist. "He wants you, he has to go through me first."

_I'll kill him before he ever gets that close to you, Greg._

Lestrade's fingers lowered and caressed the soft skin of Mycroft's hip, just above his trousers. The elder Holmes, feeling heat pool low in his belly, sighed and touched Gregory's face. The policeman shifted and kissed his palm. His moist lips made Mycroft's cock stir and bloom with arousal.

"Greg," he breathed. "Please….. Make love to me right now."

Lestrade took him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back. "Thought you'd never ask."

Their lips, arms, and legs intertwined, accompanied by lusty moans and aggressive rutting. Mycroft could feel Lestrade's erection grinding against his with such delicious friction that he risked coming in his trousers before they could get naked. Lowering his arms from Gregory's shoulders, he reached down between their tightly pressed bodies and undid his lover's trouser fastenings.

"Oh, Christ, Myc," Lestrade groaned when Mycroft grasped his erection, pulled it free, and began stroking. "Yeah, yeah, do that thing with your thumb across the head…oh, my God!" His hips jerked and slick, clear pre-ejaculate trickled forth, lubricating the way for more energetic strokes. Growling, he tackled Mycroft's mouth with sweeping tongue movements and nearly tore the elder Holmes' trousers and underwear off.

"Careful, they're expensive!" Mycroft half-laughed half-gasped.

"I'll buy you a new pair, you posh tease," Lestrade grinned against his lips.

Mycroft arched his back and cried out when Gregory's teeth and tongue tackled that sensitive place below his jaw. Every nerve in his being sizzled with desire and an energy he'd never known with anyone else. Earlier in the summer, when a well-intentioned but nearly-disastrous experiment of Sherlock's convinced him that he was dying, Mycroft had conditioned himself to experience people, love, life, and emotions with greater intensity than before. Even after the ruse was discovered, his elevated capacity for living in the moment remained.

Moriarty was out there somewhere, technically placing Mycroft back in the shadow of death. But right now all he focused on was the warm breeze that blew across his heated skin, the icy brilliance of the stars, and the feel of the man he loved sighing and straining against him.

His own cock brushed wetly against his knuckles as he continued to milk Gregory's erection with long, slick pulls. "Got lube?" he choked.

"Shirt pocket." Lestrade kept one hand on Mycroft's arse while he rooted for it. "Ah- here we-"

At first Mycroft thought he was hearing thunder. The tumultuous overhead boom sent his confused stare skyward. But there was nary a cloud in the sky. What….

"Myc! Oh my God," Lestrade gurgled.

Mycroft's eyes shot back to his lover, and widened in horror. Gregory was falling back against the blanket, grasping his shoulder and gulping for air. Blood ran between his fingers in thick, sickening rivulets.

"GREG!" Mycroft hurled his own body over Lestrade's. Raising his head, he hollered, "Sniper alert! Man hit! Call 999!"

The street below came to life. Neighbours rushed to windows and doorways, bodyguards charged into the house and thundered up the stairs. Although he couldn't see them, Mycroft knew that night vision lenses were being turned in all directions, seeking the shadowy gunman who may very well have killed Gregory Lestrade.

"Greg!" Mycroft looked back down. "Hang on, I've called-"

Then he stopped, because one look at those vacant eyes told him that Gregory wasn't in them any more.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft jerked awake and stared at his surroundings. The three armed guards at the door had changed position and one now sipped foul-smelling machine coffee, but everything else was the same. Gregory was still lying on the hospital bed, hooked up to so many monitors and IVs that he seemed equal parts human and machine. Mycroft's blood-smeared fingers were still tightly intertwined with his limp ones.

"How long was I asleep?"

One of the guards, a husky redheaded woman, answered in respectful tones. "Over fifteen minutes, sir. Mr. Lestrade hasn't stirred."

"Thank you, Leslie. When my brother and Dr. Watson arrive, allow them entry immediately."

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft's eyes drifted shut again; his body and mind craved darkness and rest. He had been in that private waiting room for hours, hands shaking and people talking, and him unable to perceive their words as anything but meaningless noise. All he could comprehend through the haze was his own silent plea of _Don't die, Greg, please don't die_.

The police –Greg's friends- were respectful but insistent with their questions, which he answered politely but mechanically until the foam cup of lukewarm tea exploded in his grip and they wisely retreated for the time being. When informed that Lestrade was out of surgery, he ordered that Gregory be taken to a private room for monitoring, and Anthea made the necessary calls to ensure that the demand was obeyed.

Glancing at the clock, Mycroft estimated that Sherlock and John were only minutes from London now. They'd still been at the Holmes Manor, intending to stay another week, but when Anthea rang to give them the news, John said they would return immediately. Mycroft was desperate for their company, their _support._ He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold complete collapse at bay.

He gazed down at the hand curled bonelessly around his own, and swallowed when he realized that only hours before, that hand had been caressing his body, pleasuring him as an expression of the love that its owner felt. It looked so fragile now, almost waxen.

Mycroft had not changed his clothes since the shooting, and the hard plastic hospital chair hurt his back, but he refused to leave Gregory's side.

Anthea appeared in the doorway. "Any change, sir?"

"No. He's still unconscious."

She nodded, face appropriately sympathetic, and glanced down at her phone. "Your brother just texted. They'll be here within the hour."

"Thank you. And the bullet they took from Mr. Lestrade's shoulder?"

"Our people have it now, sir. Expecting a ballistics report by morning."

Mycroft instinctively knew who had shot at them: Sebastian Moran was ex-military and a seasoned marksman. He also knew that Moriarty had ordered Moran to shoot Lestrade and leave him unharmed. The arch criminal never did things the quick and easy way: he liked to hack at your sanity slowly by destroying what you cherished, killing you inside until your physical execution was a mere formality. Gregory, John and Sherlock would all die before any guns or bombs targeted Mycroft. It was enough to tempt him to die first….

He shook away that thought immediately.

"Thank you. I want to see it the moment it's ready."

"Of course." She reached into the pocket of her tailored suit and took out a mobile. "Here's your phone, sir. You left it in your coat."

Mycroft laid it on the bedside table. The message indicator light flashed: probably John or Sherlock reassuring him that they were en route. He ignored the device in favour of stroking Gregory's arm with his other hand.

"The doctors say you're going to be fine," he whispered. "You're very lucky, Greg. We both are."

At that moment, Lestrade's fingers flexed and he stirred. Heartbeat accelerating, Mycroft leaned toward him. "Greg?"

Lestrade turned his head on the pillow and stared, visibly struggling to focus. "Myc?"

"I'm here." Mycroft gently squeezed his hand and leaned forward. "How do you feel?"

"Sore," Lestrade rasped, peering down at his bandaged shoulder before facing his lover again. "They didn't get you, did they?"

"No."

"Thank God." He relaxed. "Is the bullet out?"

"Yes."

He shifted. "Christ, it hurts. But now John and I have something in common."

"Matching shoulder wounds?" Mycroft smiled, masking the impulse to weep with relief. "Only you would view it from that perspective."

"Just trying to make you smile."

"I'll wait for your brother and Dr. Watson downstairs," Anthea said.

When she left, Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth, "I'll kill them for this, Greg. I swear it."

"And I'll be helping you. Psychotic little bastard needs to be stopped. It could have been you lying here instead."

_No, it couldn't. That would end the 'game' prematurely._

At that moment the surgeon came in, having been informed by Anthea that Lestrade was awake. He shone a light in the policeman's eyes, checked the dressing, and explained what the recovery process would be like: long and occasionally painful. But the prognosis was excellent.

"You're lucky, Mr. Lestrade," he said. "The bullet could have severed an artery."

"Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft said. "How soon can he be removed for private home care?"

"I wouldn't recommend it for a few days at least, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Lestrade's lost a lot of blood and excess movement could aggravate the injury."

He made a mental note to have the hospital administrators move a portable bed into the room; there was no way he was leaving Gregory's side in the foreseeable future. "All right. Thank you."

After directing a nurse to give Lestrade something for the pain, the surgeon left. Gregory stroked the back of Mycroft's hand and said, "Myc, a favour?"

"My God, anything."

"I hate hospital food. Any chance you could arrange catered meals? I'm partial to Peking Duck." He winked.

Mycroft's eyes flooded with tears. "I'll kidnap an Asian chef just for you."

His phone chimed, signalling another incoming text. He decided to check it: if it was John or Sherlock, he wanted to let them know the good news.

He didn't recognize the number, but the tone of the message easily identified the sender.

_Hello, Big Brother. How's lover boy? Seb was SO careless. Should have ended his misery the first time. Must punish that boy._

Lestrade, seeing his expression, frowned. "What is it, Myc?"

Another message.

_I'm thinking it's a bit unfair, Seb and I against yourself, Sherlock, Johnny-Boy, and your wounded policeman. So I brought in some help. See anyone familiar in the photo?_

Staring at the attachment, Mycroft did. He recognized both of the men lounging in the ornate café, raising brandy snifters in mocking salute.

One was Moriarty. The facial scar from last summer's razor fight was hideously prominent.

The other was a man whose secret incarceration Mycroft had arranged ten years ago. This brilliant but murderous individual had killed dozens of people before Mycroft captured him with the assistance of an elite MI6 team who'd subsequently been sworn to secrecy. It had been the most difficult mission he'd ever headed, because the target's mental and intellectual acumen had been equal to, if not greater, than his own.

James Moriarty's new ally was Mycroft's own older brother.

Sherrinford Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

"Myc?" Lestrade raised his head. "What's happened?"

Mycroft shoved the phone in his pocket. "Moriarty," he said.

Gregory made an angry noise. "Fucking little prick. What's he saying?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. You look like you're about to vomit."

"What, nothing else has happened tonight to upset me that much?" Mycroft smiled weakly, but when Gregory didn't follow suit, he dropped the pretense. "All right. What Moriarty just sent to me is bad. Very bad. And I will tell you everything. But not until later, when there's no chance of Sherlock hearing."

"That sounds serious."

"It is. And I don't say that easily."

For not only was Sherrinford Holmes a psychopath and killer, Sherlock didn't even know he existed.

******

Their father's marriage to their mother had not been his first. Siger Holmes was forty-five when he married twenty-three-year-old Violet Vernet. He had a son from his previous relationship, which had ended with his wife's suicide. Mycroft often wondered whether their only child had precipitated her breakdown.

Eight years old when Mycroft was born, Sherrinford was a classic Holmes: wavy hair, strong features, and an uncanny deductive ability. He read and spoke at a level far above his age group, and his teachers speculated that he might one day become the youngest student to enter university. But there was a chilling disconnection between his public behaviour and private actions; he smiled at people whom he later derided as "useless cattle" and he had no compunctions about lying to or scheming against his own family, whom he cheerily professed to love, if it got him what he wanted.

Mycroft only saw his older half-brother during holidays and summer breaks. Siger had explained that Sherrinford went to a special boarding school for advanced children. He never revealed that it was because the boy made the new Mrs. Holmes nervous.

As brothers, they'd gotten along surprisingly well. Mycroft's earliest memories involved outsmarting Sherrinford when the latter tried to play cruel tricks on him, and consequently being welcomed as an equal. It also helped that Mycroft had a diplomatic nature that allowed him to outperform his brother without threatening Sherrinford's precious sense of superiority.

When Violet Holmes became pregnant with Sherlock, Sherrinford was delighted. "Mycroft, do you know what this means?"

"We'll have a new brother or sister."

"Yes, who will also be a _Holmes_. Like you, Father, and I. Superior to all those subjects whom we encounter every day."

"What's a subject?"

The older boy grinned conspiratorially. "Come here. I'll show you."

He guided Mycroft to the window. The sitting room of their Hampstead townhouse overlooked the High Street and its endless flow of people and cars. Nodding at the bustle of humanity, Sherrinford said, " _Those_ are subjects."

Mycroft was confused. "I just see people."

"You can call them that, if you'd rather. But they're not the same as us, Mycroft. They're stupid, most of them. Sheep. They see but they don't observe. They exist but they don't live. They don't belong on the same planet as you and I and it's our duty to remove them when we're able."

"Really?" Mycroft's brow furrowed. "They _look_ like us though."

"But they don't _think_ like us, and intelligence is what distinguishes man from beast. Remember that."

"I will. So how do we remove them? And where will they go?"

"I'll tell you that when you're older. Bigger. Then we'll start removing them together."

Not long after that conversation, London experienced a rash of strange disappearances. A girl from Sherrinford's class. One of the servers at the Notting Hall coffee shop where he liked to hang out and read Nietszche. A teenaged football player whom Sherrinford once described as "too stupid to breathe." No trace was found of any of them, living or dead. When Mr. and Mrs. Holmes discussed the terrifying phenomenon over dinner one evening and warned the boys not to talk to strangers or go anywhere alone, Sherrinford winked at Mycroft and Mycroft returned the gesture automatically, not sure what the shared joke was supposed to be.

The disappearances went on for three more years, and only happened during the months when Sherrinford came home from school. One day, when he was ten, Mycroft finally voiced the suspicions he'd begun to entertain. He walked into his brother's bedroom, shut the door, and said, "You're removing subjects, aren't you? Lots of them."

Sherrinford lowered the Kafka biography he was reading. "Why do you say that?"

"The one who disappeared on Thursday went missing after his soccer practice in Camden Town. You came home late that night, and I saw a tube receipt for a return trip between Hampstead and Camden Town fall out of your pocket."

Instead of being angry, Sherrinford looked pleased. "Very good. Your observation skills are first rate. Maybe you should come with me on a few expeditions."

"What do I have to do?"

"Just help me talk to them and keep watch afterward."

Mycroft felt an odd chill. "Keep watch?"

"That's right." Sherrinford narrowed his steel-coloured eyes. "Problem?"

"I just want to know what you're doing to them."

"That, little brother, I can't tell you until we do one together."

That was when Mycroft _knew_ what 'remove' was a euphemism for. Detecting his uneasiness, Sherrinford said, "Don't get sentimental. Caring is a mistake, Mycroft. We have a mission."

"To kill people?"

"They're not PEOPLE." The older boy threw his book down and jumped off the bed. Mycroft stood his ground, sensing that his life might depend on it. "They're SUBJECTS. And the world is a shithole because there are so many of them."

Mycroft said nothing. Sherrinford took him by the shoulders, face alight with excitement. "Come on; let's go for a walk on the High Street. I'll show you the millions of ways that subjects don't deserve to exist. Then let you pick one. You'll understand better afterward, and it's so much fun. You hate being bored as much as I do."

Before Mycroft could reply, the housekeeper knocked on the door and called them down to dinner.

Mycroft never went on that walk with his half-brother. That night, his mother took him shopping for new school clothes while eighteen-year-old Sherrinford ventured into the city alone. At midnight two police officers caught him strangling a semi-conscious uni student on Hampstead Heath. Mycroft remembered how his mother had screamed and his father had gone grey with shock. Then came newspaper reporters, and an extended vacation in America for Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock, and Mycroft.

Sherlock had been only three at the time, and understood none of it. Mycroft understood everything only too well. His parents told him that his big brother was very sick but getting help, and one day he would rejoin the family. But that day never came: Sherrinford remained in various high-security psychiatric facilities (Broadmoor, Ashworth, and Rampton) and only communicated with his father. Sherlock quickly forgot about his half-brother and the sensation generated by the crime (none of the other missing 'subjects' were ever linked to Sherrinford directly), and Violet Holmes insisted that he never be reminded.

Mycroft, on the other hand, found it impossible to forget. As the years went by and he became a power at MI6 and in politics, he requested and received progress reports. Then, in 2002, he was informed that Sherrinford had escaped from Rampton after setting a laundry room fire (which killed eight fellow inmates) as a diversion.

The next day, people began dying, and Mycroft went into action. He studied Sherrinford's inmate file, profiled his half-brother's preferred victim type, and called upon his MI6 contacts to assemble a retrieval squad. He led it personally, following the fugitive successfully from one hideout to another until the two Holmses confronted each other in a Brixton squat for the first time in twenty-two years. Mycroft had actually anticipated where Sherrinford would hide, down to the actual house number, and waited for him to show up.

Sherrinford was actually delighted to be caught by his own brother. "You see, Mycroft?" he chortled. "You're the only one who could have found me. No matter how much training you give them, subjects could never learn what we _know_." Then he paused. "Of course, since you're not with me, you're against me. And don't take it personally if I have to remove you one day."

There was no trial. Sherrinford was quietly locked in a maximum security government facility in East Kent, and Sherlock remained ignorant of a third Holmes brother. That was about to change, thanks to Moriarty.

And Mycroft was terrified.

******

Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted by John Watson's arrival.

"Hey," the doctor said kindly, giving Mycroft a quick one-armed hug and nodding at Lestrade. "Christ, Greg, you look like shit. Even I wasn't that ugly when I was shot."

"Blow me, Watson."

"Blow what? Heard that got shot off too."

Mycroft ignored the sauna humour. "Where's Sherlock, John?"

"Should be up any minute. He lingered to talk to a man who stopped us near the triage station. I've never seen the guy before, but he seemed to know Sherlock, and strange as it sounds, he kinda _looks_ like him."

Mycroft went cold. "Was this man in his late forties? Wavy hair the same color as mine?"

"Yes. How did you-"

But Mycroft was already out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft nearly collided with Anthea when he charged into the hall. She sidestepped just in time and caught his arm to prevent him from careening into a medicine cart.

"Sir, what is it?"

"My brother. Where is he?"

"On his way in the lift, I'm sure, sir. He needed a few extra minutes to speak to an acquaintance, so I escorted Dr. Watson up."

"John, stay with Greg, please!" Mycroft looked back into Lestrade's room. Both men were staring in alarm and confusion. "I'll be right back!"

_If I say Sherlock's in danger, there'll be no way to stop John from following._

Anthea followed him into the unoccupied lift, unbuttoning her suit jacket for better access to her shoulder holster. "Sir?" was all she asked.

"That man you saw my brother talking to is with Moriarty. Neutralize on sight. If at all possible, take him alive."

She nodded. "His name, sir?"

Mycroft watched the illuminated floor indicator mark their progress. "Holmes. Sherrinford J. I'll instruct you on the particulars later."

Her brow furrowed, but she merely nodded again. Anthea had not been with his office when the 2002 retrieval mission took place, and her duties had never required her to access that sealed file. But she wasn't stupid: the hostile party's surname and Mycroft's atypical agitation made it obvious that there was more to the crisis than Sherlock being in danger yet again.

When the lift doors opened into the hospital lobby and waiting area, the first thing Mycroft saw was people crowded at the windows. Bits of conversation struck him like hot ash drifting from a bonfire.

"Is the poor man alive?"

"Don't look like it. Christ."

Mycroft bolted across the lobby and out the sliding glass doors.

Hospital staff and two uniformed police officers were bent over a figure on the pavement. Mycroft lunged toward the small crowd, pushing people aside without apology, and stared down at the motionless form.

It wasn't Sherlock. But it _was_ one of his agents. A young man who hadn't been with his office for long. What was his name? Henderson.

"That man works for me,' Mycroft said, flashing his government identification while looking around desperately for Sherlock. "What's happened here?"

One of the police officers was with Lestrade's division, and recognized him. "Mr. Holmes- three men forced your brother into a van. This gentleman interfered, and they shot him. He's dead."

"Where's Sherlock?"

"They took him."

Mycroft paled. Anthea, who had materialized at his side, began tapping furiously on her Blackberry. Stepping in front of her employer as if shielding him, she asked, "When did the van disappear?"

"Less than a minute ago. The whole thing happened in five minutes."

"Did you witness the abduction and shooting from start to finish?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Mycroft collected himself enough to speak. "Tell me everything."

"Your brother and Dr. Watson arrived together, but Sherlock stopped to speak to a man who approached him. They talked briefly before Sherlock followed him out here."

"My brother went voluntarily?"

"Outside, yes, sir. This poor bloke-" the policeman nodded down at Henderson "-followed them. A white van pulled up and two men jumped out of the rear. They helped pull your brother into the vehicle. The victim here started to go for his gun, but the driver shot him first. Then the van disappeared."

"Did you notice a license number?" Anthea asked.

"I did, ma'am." He provided it, but Mycroft didn't listen. Moriarty would obviously have used a stolen vehicle or phoney plates.

 _Moriarty and Sherrinford have Sherlock._ His legs trembled and dark spots clouded his vision. He wanted to text Moriarty right now, plead for his brother's life, and offer himself as a substitute. But he knew that such an appeal would only excite the arch-criminal, and inspire him to be sadistically creative with his captive. As for Sherrinford, his active participation in his half-brother's kidnapping led Mycroft to expect no mercy or protection from that quarter.

_Think, Holmes. THINK. There has to be something, some leverage I can apply._

_Moriarty never throws away one toy without having another lined up. At the falls, before he pushed Sherlock over the ledge, he said he intended to play with me now. I was a bigger challenge who made Sherlock Holmes disposable. But what if I ceased to exist?_

_He'd have to let Sherlock live. With me gone, there'd be no one else remotely interesting enough to play with._

Mycroft looked up at the hospital roof. It might be high enough.

He sent a single text to Moriarty.

_You might as well let Sherlock go. I'm ending the game early._

Moriarty's response was swift. _Don't believe you._

_Watch me then. I know you can. MH._

Pocketing the phone, he said, "Thank you, officer."

The man regarded him sympathetically. "We're on it, Mr. Holmes."

"I know. I have full confidence in the Yard," Mycroft lied. When the policeman turned away, he sent a second text, this one to his cousin Mina in Sussex.

_Please call John Watson when you get this. He'll explain. You're needed in London. MH._

Mina Trevanian was a Holmes, the only child of his father's dead brother. A year younger than Sherlock, her intellectual and deductive abilities paralleled those of her cousins. Before her marriage last year to a record producer, she'd worked as a talent scout for EMI, attending performances by unsigned bands and reading the crowds to accurately predict the Next Big Thing. She and Sherlock didn't always enjoy an amicable association: he'd nearly wrecked her wedding out of boredom. But Mycroft knew that he could count on her in a crisis like this one.

He dreaded bringing her into this nightmare. During her music business days, Mina regularly swam with sharks, but none of them had teeth like James Moriarty's. But if his plan didn't work, Mycroft would need her brain and her courage to protect John and Greg from whatever Moriarty and Sherrinford had planned for them.

If he was gone, she would be the only one who could.

_Oh, Christ. Greg. Forgive me if I actually have to do this._

"Anthea?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Please go upstairs and advise Dr. Watson and DI Lestrade what has happened."

"But, sir-"

"I'll be fine. Go. Please."

Anthea's expression remained politely deferential, but she did not leave. "No, sir, I don't think you will. Please excuse me for saying so. I'd best stay with you."

Mycroft knew what triggered the reluctant defiance: the fear and anxiety that was detectable only to someone who knew him like as she did. When he tried to kill himself at the beginning of the summer, she'd saved his life by correctly interpreting a neutral text as a suicide note. She could tell simply by looking at him that he was approaching that abyss again. She just didn't know that it was not voluntarily this time.

"My dear, I insist."

"So do I, sir." Rapid blinking signalled her distress. "Please, sir, I have orders."

Mycroft sighed. "Of course you do." His superiors would want him watched for at least a year, for any signs of lapsing.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"It's all right. Very well, come along. Henderson was murdered in public view, so the local authorities can take over from here."

He walked away from the growing crowd and excited chatter, and strode along Giltspur Street. She followed, alternating her gaze between him and her Blackberry. At Newgate Street he turned left and entered the passageway dividing the main Bart's building from its neighbour.

Anthea hesitated. "Sir? Why are we-"

"I'm sorry," Mycroft whispered before turning around, grabbing her lapels, and hauling her toward him. Before she could make a sound, he pinched her neck in the crook of his arm and pressed down on her carotid artery. When she went limp, he picked her up gently and carried her toward a brightly lit stairwell. He'd leave her inside and then continue his journey to the roof….

"Ah, Mycroft. I knew you'd see them as subjects sooner or later."

He froze. Then, still holding his PA close, Mycroft turned to face his older brother.


	5. Chapter 5

Staring at Sherrinford as he sauntered off the street into the passageway, Mycroft felt as if he were beholding Sherlock fifteen years in the future. Physically, anyway. Mentally- oh God, no. Please.

Sherrinford was nearly fifty, but his hyperkinetic energy belied middle age. Coiled muscles, glittering eyes, and a toothy smile reminded Mycroft of a greyhound desperate to catch the rabbit. Or a junkie minutes from a fix. Or a hunter excited by the prospect of a new kill.

When they were six feet apart, Sherrinford stopped. At closer range, Mycroft could see faint lines at the edges of his eyes and a softness around his waistline, but otherwise the resemblance to Sherlock was unsettling. They had the same dark, curly hair, lanky frame and aloof, contemptuous expression. They even had the same semi-manic glow in their eyes when excited, like Sherrinford was now.

Mycroft instinctively held Anthea closer. "What is this, Sherrinford?"

"This?" The older man extended his arms and beheld the dirty stone walls as if they were the finest marble. "This is freedom. I should thank you for putting me in that ghastly place for so many years. It's made my liberty so much sweeter."

"I wouldn't call being James Moriarty's attack dog liberty."

"Yes, Jim does presume that I'll be permanently grateful. Just like that tin soldier, Moran. He doesn't know me – _us_ \- very well, does he?" He pulled a mobile out of his trouser pocket and glanced down at it. "Hmm. Five messages in the last five minutes, wanting to know where I am with Sherlock. So insecure."

"What?"

Sherrinford's grin broadened at Mycroft's expression. "It was quite terrible. The van crashed around ten blocks from here. Moriarty's boys were killed- necks broken. I wasn't hurt though. Nor was Sherlock."

"You're turning on Moriarty."

"I'm weighing my options. So far I'm keeping him pacified, as this is the most fun I've had in years. But I won't be able to for much longer." Sherrinford glanced down at Anthea. "For heaven's sake, brother, if you clutch that young lady any closer, you'll be passing out the cigars in nine months."

Mycroft held tight. "She's safer this way."

"I do believe you're right." Those cool, Holmesian eyes surveyed him all over. "Women are definitely not your area. You have money, but you don't dress in the masculine yet fashionable attire that the ladies find so appealing. Therefore their admiration matters little to you. Jim said something about a fling with a policeman?"

Mycroft ignored the question. "Where's Sherlock, Sherrinford? If you've hurt him-"

Sherrinford waved impatiently. "He's fine. Probably still sleeping. I made sure he was safely hidden before coming back here."

Slowly, without taking his eyes off his brother, Mycroft laid Anthea down. After placing her in a semi-reclining position beside the stairwell entrance, he stood back up and did a visual scan of his own. Sherrinford wore dark, slim-fitted trousers, a white button-up shirt made from a material that resembled silk, and a tight black jacket. No bulge from a shoulder or belt holster was discernible, but that didn't make the man any less dangerous. Sherrinford usually killed with his hands, after disabling his victims beforehand with charm and wit.

"I mean it," Mycroft said. "Regardless of what Moriarty has told you, nothing will protect you from me if Sherlock is hurt."

Sherrinford looked amused. "You really think I would allow harm to befall him?"

"What are you saying?"

A big, dramatic sigh. "He's a _Holmes_ , Mycroft. Worth a million subjects."

"That didn't stop you from taking him in the first place."

"I had orders. Jim got me out of that boring facility you sent me to. I owe him a little cooperation- for awhile, at least."

"You killed two of his men. Is that how you co-operate?"

"No. That's how I tell you that I want to make a deal."

Mycroft paused. Although every fibre in his being urged him to tackle Sherrinford and beat him unmercifully before calling for backup, he knew he had to listen. The older man would have ensured before coming here that Sherlock's survival depended on his timely return. And if there was the slightest chance that he could remove Sherrinford from Moriarty's control, he would cut a deal with a psychopath. He'd done it before: many of Sherrinford's type commanded the fates of entire nations.

"All right. I'm listening."

"Mycroft Holmes? Please- raise your hands and lie face down on the ground."

Both Holmes brothers turned in response to the shakily barked order. A young agent from Mycroft's office, who had been assigned to him at the same time as the murdered Henderson, stood at the passageway entrance, his gun trained on both of them.

"Mr. Holmes," he practically beseeched, eyes fixed on his boss. "Oversight has asked that you be brought in."

Mycroft felt cold all over. "On what grounds, Lansing?"

"You assaulted your assistant. I'm sorry, sir, but they've seen camera footage, and they want you brought to Surrey for questioning and evaluation." Lansing's eyes darted to Anthea. "Is she all right?"

Sherrinford rolled his eyes. "Of course she's all right, idiot. Ever see a corpse with that much color?"

The agent's eyes snapped to the oldest brother. "A team's en route. Both of you on the ground, arms extended. Please."

Mycroft knew that he was in trouble. His superiors had been reluctant to let him reassume his duties after last summer's suicide attempt, but he'd satisfied their mental health experts and been cleared for command. Now, after a horrible night that had seen his partner injured and one of his men killed, Mycroft had been seen on camera, luring Anthea into a deserted location and knocking her out. He knew what Oversight was thinking: that he'd snapped. There would be consequences: a psychiatric evaluation and confinement until they were satisfied that his mind was sound, and they'd be a lot harder to convince a second time. And in the meantime, Sherrinford had Sherlock, and John and Greg… _Greg_ … would be at Moriarty's mercy.

"Mr. Holmes, please, sir… I don't want to shoot you."

"Mr. Lansing, I appreciate that you have orders, but-"

"Oh, don't bother," Sherrinford grumbled. "They're all too stupid to understand logic."

Before Mycroft realized what was happening, the eldest Holmes slid a knife out of an inside pocket and hurled it so quickly that the blade appeared in the agent's chest as if by magic. Lansing tried to shout, but could only gurgle before a waterfall of red descended from his mouth. He fell onto his back, the gun slipping from his fingers and bouncing off the pavement.

That would all be on camera too.

 _Oh, dear God, oh Christ, oh Christ_ ….

Although the man was seconds from dying, Mycroft automatically started toward him. Sherrinford seized his arm. "If you want to help Sherlock, come with me. Now."

So Mycroft ran. All the while, his mind resounded with the pronouncement that he knew was buzzing around Oversight headquarters right now.

_Holmes has gone rogue._


	6. Chapter 6

Walking beside his murderous half-brother through the streets of London battered Mycroft's sanity. As he passed legions of smiling people on their way to clubs, deducing that their greatest worry was whether or not they'd get into the new trendy wine bar, he envied the common man for the first time in his life.

Only years of practice at masking his inner feelings kept him from collapsing. In one single night, his entire world had been shattered. Oversight had revoked his power and ordered him brought in, possibly for permanent containment. Gregory lay wounded only a few blocks away, and Mycroft could not risk going to him. Sherlock had been kidnapped and, Sherrinford's assurances to the contrary, possibly hurt. Two of his employees- bright young men with stellar futures- were dead. Murdered. He'd been forced to assault Anthea, who'd been his loyal right arm (and sometimes his left as well).

And he was at the mercy of a psychopath.

He'd always prided himself on being ready for emergencies. But a personal apocalypse was something he'd never anticipated.

He couldn't run forever. He knew that. But he needed to stay at liberty long enough to rescue Sherlock and finish off Moriarty and Moran. Then he would surrender to Oversight and hope for the best. He'd violated multiple protocols, but there were extenuating circumstances, and surveillance footage would prove that Sherrinford had killed Lansing. Still, he couldn't be sure what his fate would be. Two of the Directors had been against his return to duty after his suicide attempt, and would surely vote for his long-term containment. And if that happened, he wouldn't be able to see Gregory for the duration….

"Were you really going to do it?" Sherrinford asked suddenly.

Mycroft jumped at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts. "Do what?"

"Dive off the hospital roof. That's what you planned on doing when I found you, wasn't it? Jim forwarded the text you sent him. About ending the game early."

"If that's what it took to save Sherlock, yes. I would have. Not that I expect you to understand."

Sherrinford chuckled. "I may not understand, but it would have thrown Jim's strategy into disarray. He's got long-term plans for you, and you dying now would have ruined his fun."

"And do you intend to enlighten me on these plans?"

Sherrinford stopped in mid-stride and regarded him thoughtfully. Mycroft felt his mind being scanned and appraised like he'd done to so many people in the past. "I'm inclined to," he finally said. "But I'm undecided. Jim set me free after all. You locked me up. And given the opportunity, you'd do so again."

"You prey on the public, Sherrinford. I protect it. I'm interested in knowing how you think that we'd ever peacefully co-exist with you on the loose."

"We're about to find out, aren't we?" The eldest Holmes resumed walking. "At any rate, Sherlock is not a part of this as far as I'm concerned. I have no scores to settle with him, and he's a Holmes. You're the one who betrayed me, Mycroft, and by all rights I should let Jim carry out his nasty little game plan for you. But you're a Holmes too. Hmmm. Decisions. Decisions."

"You said you wanted to make a deal."

"That's true, I did. But with your own people turning on you, I'm wondering what you have to offer any more." He shook his head. "Mycroft, must you be so righteous? Imagine what we could accomplish together, just the two of us. Moriarty and Moran would not stand a chance. No subjects would. We could eliminate so many of them."

"You don't have to murder someone to prevail over them."

"Maybe not. But it does ensure that you don't need to prevail over them a second time. Don't be a hypocrite, brother dear. I'd dare say your kill count is higher than mine."

"Anything I've done, I've done in the name of national security."

"How noble. And now your old masters –a bunch of ungrateful, stupid subjects- have made _you_ a threat to national security. When will you learn?"

After they'd travelled for several blocks, Mycroft stopped at a bank machine and withdrew money from an account that he'd set up under an alias years ago. Oversight didn't know that he had it, which meant that he didn't have to worry about funds for awhile. Conscious that his former masters would likely audit all ATM transactions within a certain radius of the hospital, he was careful to take out a minimal amount. He also lowered the brim of the hat (swiped from a street vendor display) that now constituted part of a temporary disguise, hiding his face from the machine's camera.

As he punched his PIN number on the heavily worn keypad, Mycroft kept one eye on Sherrinford, who flashed crocodile grins at the women passing by. The older man's bloodlust appeared to be satisfied by the night's casualties, but Mycroft didn't trust him.

"Do stop looking at me like that," Sherrinford drawled. "People will think we're a couple, and there are some things not even I would do."

"Just stay where I can see you."

His older brother's face twisted in annoyance and vague amusement. "Telling me what to do when I'm the only one who knows where our baby brother is? Not very smart."

Mycroft waited until the machine ejected the cash and returned his debit card. Then he spun around sharply and grabbed the older man's arm, digging his fingers in. "Don't goad me. If you didn't know where Sherlock was, I'd have killed you back there and taken my chances with Oversight."

Sherrinford smiled. "Years of being their pet didn't soften you, did it? I'm impressed." When an ugly light flared in Mycroft's eyes, he sobered a little. "You're afraid. Don't be."

"You're right. I _am_ afraid. I represented powerful interests, Sherrinford. And now they're after me. Us. You can call them subjects or cattle all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that they have eyes everywhere. It's not a question of _if_ they'll catch us, it's _when_."

"Not if we get them first. Now let me go, before you attract attention."

Mycroft lowered his hand. Sherrinford rubbed his bicep, winced briefly, and started walking. "I mean it," he said. "Tell me who the leaders are and where to find them, and I'll eliminate them. I can bypass any electronic surveillance system. They knew it at East Kent too- never let me anywhere near their computer room." When Mycroft didn't immediately reply, he added, "They wouldn't stand a chance against the two of us. That young punk back there- what was he, top of his class at uni? MI6 golden boy? None of that did him any good when a knife hit him."

Before Mycroft could answer, flashing lights at an intersection the next block over caught his eye. An ambulance and bevy of police vehicles surrounded a white van, whose bonnet was completely crushed against a street lamp. "The driver didn't make it," Sherrinford commented in mock sorrow, confirming his brother's suspicions.

Mycroft forced himself to stay calm. "Where's Sherlock?"

"We're almost there. Hold on. Must text Jim and convince him that I'm en route." Sherrinford paused in front of a Starbucks and tapped a message into his phone.

"You're not going to be able to stall him forever."

"I'm not planning on it. This will all come to a head very soon." He put the phone away. "Just told him the bad news about his men, but that Sherlock and myself are safe and on the way. That's all he cares about, really."

"Sounds like a candidate for becoming your best friend."

Sherrinford snorted. "Moriarty's clever and unsentimental, I'll grant him that. But he's not like us, and never can be. Still, we can use him- he's the best of a useless lot."

_Use him? Only as a firing range target._

One block past the crash site and near where King William Street and Cannon Street converged, Sherrinford guided him into a passageway behind the House of Fraser Department Store. "Here we are."

Mycroft stared about, wondering how on earth Sherrinford had carried Sherlock all that distance without attracting attention. Noticing his consternation, the man said proudly, "By rooftop. I'd assumed you'd deduced that by now. But you were never much of one for legwork, were you?"

"I'm not in the mood," Mycroft bristled. "Now where is he? I'm losing patience here."

"Really? I'm extremely patient these days, myself. You acquire the habit when you've been incarcerated most of your life."

"Which you richly deserved."

"Matter of opinion. Up here."

Mycroft's hand slid into his pocket. While pretending to assess the locale, he tapped the coordinates to Mina via cryptogram, using a code they'd perfected as youngsters to confuse their parents. Although his phone did not have a GPS tracker installed, Oversight technicians would still be able to access his texts. He'd have to get a prepaid model as soon as possible, but in the interim, he needed to keep Mina (and therefore John and Gregory) apprised of his movements. Before hitting the send button he added, in code, _Give these details to JW and GL._

Despite his age and years of forced inactivity, Sherrinford leaped onto a fire escape running up the back of the House of Fraser building with the speed and agility of a cat. Mycroft was leaner than he'd been in years, but the jump and subsequent climb left him winded and made his heart hammer with more than just apprehension.

A darkened window on the sixth floor was partway open, having been carefully divested of its air conditioning unit. Sherrinford climbed in first, with Mycroft behind him.

When Mycroft saw the motionless form slumped over the desk, he froze, initially thinking that a security guard had chosen the silent room for an illicit nap. Then Sherrinford flipped on the light, and he saw that it was Sherlock, who was unconscious but appeared unharmed.

"Thank God!" he choked. He hurried over, raised his younger brother's chin, and checked his pulse. It was weak but steady. Sherlock muttered something in his sleep and slid back down to the desk's cluttered surface, burying his face in his folded arms.

"What did you give him?"

"Amobarbital Sodium. Lovely stuff. Had it used on me a number of times when I made the doctors too nervous. He'll be fine in a few hours." Sherrinford cocked his head, his expression approving. "He's grown into something special, hasn't he? I've read about his exploits in the papers. We should convince him to join us."

Mycroft took off his coat and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders. "All right. I see he's unhurt. I've already sent a text indicating where he is."

"I know. I saw you hesitate before following me."

"I want to know your intentions, Sherrinford. Right now."

Sherrinford was about to reply, but footsteps in the hall outside interrupted him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

Both of them tensed: Mycroft with dread, Sherrinford with excitement. The latter stared eagerly at the vague shape behind the door's frosted glass, his smile widening like a growing wound.

The stooped form and light wheeze identified the newcomer as an elderly male, former smoker. _A pensioner augmenting his pitiful income with a night job as private security_. _Most likely a former policeman or military man,_ Mycroft concluded. The guard's attention had probably been attracted by the light that Sherrinford had turned on. Mycroft silently willed him to walk away after finding the door properly locked.

But it wasn't properly locked, and yielded when the knob was turned. The regular occupant must have been in too big a hurry to get home and watch _Dr. Who_ or meet their friends for a pint. The guard was now obligated to enter the office and face certain death.

Sherrinford's grin took on shark-like proportions. When the door swung open, he sprang toward the shrivelled, rheumy-eyed figure, powerful hands aimed at the man's throat.

Mycroft kicked Sherrinford behind the knee and jumped onto his back, knocking both of them to the floor. "Get out of here!" he shouted at the shocked guard, who gaped at them before hobbling speedily away. A two-way radio crackled as the man called for assistance.

Sherrinford rolled onto his side and jabbed backward with his elbow, catching Mycroft in the stomach. Mycroft grunted but held tight, squeezing his brother's neck in the crook of his elbow. His legs closed around Sherrinford's waist to avoid being thrown off.

"For someone with your background, your tolerance for violence is pathetic," Sherrinford wheezed.

"Not really. Choking you is quite refreshing."

They wrestled on the filthy floorboards, Sherrinford twisting like an eel and Mycroft trying to hold on long enough to throttle him senseless. The contest ended when the back of Mycroft's head collided heavily with the desk's base. He cried out in pain and reached for the injury, letting Sherrinford break free. The eldest Holmes jumped to his feet, red-faced and bright-eyed.

"Don't get me wrong, brother, I quite enjoyed that," he said breathlessly, "but I do believe you underestimate the gravity of your position. You need my assistance, Mycroft. You're tough, but without your trappings of power, you don't stand a chance in the big bad world out there. It will be interesting to see who finds you first: your old masters or Jim."

Mycroft rolled onto all fours and got unsteadily to his feet. The room swayed, and he touched the desk's edge for support. "I want nothing from you. Not if it means letting you treat London like your personal hunting ground."

Sherrinford rubbed his reddened throat and smirked. "Your days of 'letting' me do anything are done. From now on, we shall be either partners or adversaries. I'll give you two days to decide, as that's the longest you'll likely remain at liberty on your own." He strolled to the window. "I must be going now, or Jim will be suspicious. As it is, I must think of a viable excuse for failing to bring Sherlock in."

"Wait," Mycroft said.

Sherrinford, who had just hooked his leg over the sill, paused. "Yes?"

"Thank you. For not turning Sherlock over to Moriarty."

"Jim will never touch him if I have anything to say about it. He's one of us. You're the one who has to choose a side: ruler or subject. I await your answer."

Then he was gone.

Mycroft took his fingers away from his throbbing scalp and saw slight traces of blood. It was a stark reminder that Sherrinford was right: if the wound had been more severe, forcing him to seek medical attention, Oversight would have detected him the moment he appeared at any hospital's A&E department. Digital spies were everywhere, largely thanks to his own efforts. He shook his head, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

Sherlock moaned and began to stir. Mycroft's throat tightened. He had to go: the police would arrive any minute and if detained for questioning tonight, he'd be in an Oversight holding room by sunrise.

"I won't let them hurt you, Sherlock," he promised before turning to the window.

Then he stopped.

Maybe he shouldn't run after all.

Sherlock cracked one eye open. "Mycroft?" he slurred as he raised his head off the desk and stared blearily about.

"I'm here." Mycroft returned and touched his shoulder. "You're safe. Help is coming."

"What happened?" Sherlock rubbed his face and swayed, groaning. "God, my head."

"Men sent by Moriarty tried to take you. They're gone." As he spoke, Mycroft heard police sirens approaching. He had to decide on a course of action. Quickly.

If he left now and went into hiding, he would be alone in his fight against Moriarty, Moran, and possibly Sherrinford. What were his chances of success?

Mycroft had undertaken high-risk solo missions during his field agent days. Once he'd infiltrated a bio-weapons compound in Tibet and disabled its security system so that British forces could move in. Another time, he'd hid on board a plane whose pilot intended to fly from a Black Cell base in Norway and crash into the United Nations building in Geneva. He'd killed the pilot, sent the plane crashing into the North Sea, and floated in freezing waters until an MI6 helicopter retrieved him. Although older now, he could still strategize, strike, and kill. But now it was different. Now he was without resources.

If he surrendered voluntarily and cooperated, perhaps Oversight could be persuaded to protect Gregory, Sherlock, and John during his absence. One of the Directors, John Greco, had been his weapons instructor at the academy and still thought highly of him, and another, Emily Sanderson, was typically sympathetic toward the families of compromised agents. While in custody, Mycroft wouldn't be permitted to contact his loved ones -a restriction that killed him inside- but logic dictated that they stood a better chance of survival this way.

Carmilla Berg would be a problem though. She'd been against his return to duty the first time, and would seize on this second perceived lapse as an excuse to contain him for as long as possible. In her case, the punitive attitude was personal: Mycroft had rejected her advances during their days in the field, and she never forgave or forgot. She continually belittled his efforts and questioned his decisions, and had gradually won over two of the other four Directors- James Clay and Sherman Wein- to her point of view. Mycroft knew she was sleeping with them: he always detected traces of her perfume on their suits during meetings. Maybe all three shared a bed.

"Moriarty is behind this?" The name worked on Sherlock like an adrenaline shot. He sat up straight and became more lucid. "There was a man who stopped me when John and I arrived at the hospital. He knew who I was and asked if I remembered him. I felt like I should. Then they took me. I remember a van. And gunshots." He blinked and shook his head to clear it further. "Who… who was that man?"

"That's not important." Mycroft took Sherlock by the shoulders. "Listen to me, please. I have to go away for a little while, and you won't know where I am."

"What? Why?"

Voices echoed on the building's lower level, accompanied by the crackling of police radios. There wasn't much time left to speak privately.

"The police are on their way. I'll talk to them and ensure that you're reunited with John at the hospital. Gregory is going to be all right, but he, you, and John all have to remain on alert. I can't emphasize how dangerous things are going to become. I've even called Mina for assistance."

"Mina?" Sherlock echoed, confused.

"Yes. Things are going to escalate, and you'll need her."

Worried grey eyes scanned Mycroft's face. "Just tell me everything. Quickly."

Keeping one eye on the door, Mycroft quickly told him about the rooftop shooting.

"Moriarty wants to burn me, Sherlock, by taking away everyone I love before he finishes me off," he said, telling the truth without mentioning Sherrinford's involvement. "If I disappear, the rules of the game change. He wants to watch me suffer, and if he can't do that, you won't be as disposable."

"He'll know that you're somewhere though. Watching."

"No." Mycroft took a deep breath. Then he lied. "I staged something for Moriarty's benefit tonight. It will convince him that I experienced a nervous relapse after Gregory was shot. Oversight agents will retrieve me by prearrangement, which he won't find surprising after last summer."

Sherlock lowered his eyes, all too aware that Mycroft had nearly died because of him. "It will look as if they detained you for another evaluation."

"Exactly. The façade may have to be maintained for awhile. Gregory and John don't know yet: things happened just after you were taken. I need you to tell them."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I honestly don't know." Mycroft kept his tone level, although the thought of being separated from the man he loved made him want to collapse. "Sherlock, it's complicated. Please."

"I think there's more that you're not telling me."

"There always is. Now promise me that you'll work with Mina to keep John and Gregory safe. My office will maintain the normal protection detail" -here he silently hoped for the best-"but Moriarty is not some run-of-the-mill terrorist. You and Mina will have to keep one step ahead of him, something even my best people would be challenged to do."

Out in the hallway, the lift doors opened and a bell rang. Footsteps strode down the hall just before four uniformed police officers entered the room. Both Mycroft and Sherlock were taken into custody for questioning, although they weren't handcuffed after the elder Holmes showed the senior officer his credentials. The man nodded respectfully and said, "I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding, Mr. Holmes."

"That's exactly what it is, Officer. Shall we go?"

During the lift ride down to the lower level, Mycroft took out his phone and sent Lestrade a text.

_Sherlock is safe. You'll see him in a couple of hours. He'll explain everything. I love you. MH._

After pressing the send button, he swallowed heavily. It wouldn't be long now. As soon as his ID was entered into the police computer, Oversight would have him.

As they stepped out of the department store's huge glass entryway and headed for a waiting police vehicle, a large black minivan rounded the corner and halted in front of the building with the pained screech of speedily applied brakes. A man leaned out the open passenger side window and opened fire with an automatic weapon. One policeman fell with a bullet in his shoulder, while everyone else dropped to the ground and scrambled for cover. Just before he leaped behind the police van, Mycroft saw Sebastian Moran and three armed men jump out of the van and rush toward them.

It was Mycroft's first look at Moran in the flesh. Moriarty's new sidekick was a former sharpshooter with the British infantry. He liked to call himself 'Colonel Moran', although he'd only attained the rank of Sergeant before military officials discharged him for repeated acts of insubordination. Mycroft had been unable to trace the origins of his partnership with Moriarty, but he suspected that it had been forged by elements that also drew Sherlock and John together: alienation and the need for distraction.

Moran was tall, like Sherlock, but twice as broad. His wheat-coloured hair was army-short and his jacket, T-shirt, and loose trousers were varying shades of dark green. He ran with his shoulders hunched, head bowed, and a high-powered rifle cradled in his hands, like he was charging across the Iraqi desert instead of a busy London street.

Mycroft was preparing to throw himself over Sherlock when a black BMW roared into view at the opposite end of the block. Moran and his fellow storm troopers hesitated when it charged down the street, bathing them in its harsh white headlights. When it didn't stop, they scrambled backward. Mycroft saw Moran land heavily against the side of his minivan.

The BMW pulled up directly in front of the police van, so close that their headlights comingled, providing additional cover for those on the pavement. The door on the driver's side swung open and a woman leaned out, her long black hair whipping about in the strengthening wind and angular face glowing with excitement.

"Lucky for you I was in London when you texted, Mycroft!" Mina Trevanian shouted to her shocked cousins. "Get in- now!"


End file.
